


A Different Kind Of Game

by joufancyhuh



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, Kinda confessions?, Winter Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-12 02:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15985247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joufancyhuh/pseuds/joufancyhuh
Summary: Leave it to Hawke to crash the Winter Ball...





	A Different Kind Of Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [friendlywitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlywitch/gifts).



> Thanks to Inquartata for betaing.

The Winter Palace invitation cut into the middle of dealing with the Wardens, much to the chagrin of the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor did their best to avoid going, to send someone in their place, but Josephine pushed hard, and plans were made to set aside the Warden conflict to attend a ball. With the knowledge that the Venatori and demon-wielding Wardens hid in Adamant Fortress, the timing couldn’t be worse.

The Inquisitor, on the note of, “If I have to suffer through this, so do you,” dragged along Varric, Dorian, and Cassandra. All three protested the choice. Cassandra was at least grateful that she wouldn’t need to wear a dress, the Inquisition uniform that Dorian deemed “made even the most beautiful flower wilt” suited her fine. She liked the squared shoulders, the snug fit, the lack of flair. 

Varric, too, accepted his fate with the uniform, though he left the top few buttons undone, a peek of his chest hair gleaming out from underneath the attire. Josephine groaned when she saw it, but her focus turned more to the elaborate embellishments Dorian and the Inquisitor made to their own uniforms and the shoe choice Leliana made for her own. 

When introduced to the court, Cassandra did her best not to roll her eyes when the flurry of whispers that began with the Inquisitor’s heraldry then soared with her own. Many reasons existed as to why she left Nevarra, but the decadence and gross wealth played a large part in it. As soon as the group received the signal to mingle with the guests, Cassandra left to stand in the shadows. She kept watch for anything suspicious, but otherwise prayed no one took notice of her. 

Someone did. In an elegant crimson sleeveless dress trimmed with elaborate gold patterns, a woman with a black and red half-face mask approached, her hair cascading dark curls over her shoulders. The strut in which she walked over to Cassandra struck her as familiar, but the former Seeker couldn't place it. Other than the members of the Inquisition she came with, how would she know anyone there? 

Cassandra did her best to ignore the woman's arrival, even when the mystery woman stopped short of Cassandra's position by the stairwell. "Enjoying yourself, Seeker?" The voice, familiar too, nagged at Cassandra's mind. 

With a hard glare, not concerned about offending this uptight noble, she grunted by way of response. 

The woman laughed, as though expecting such a reply. "Come. I heard you enjoy hunting. Let us peruse the trophies in the next room like we belong here." When Cassandra didn't move, the woman moved her mask down and winked. "You didn't really expect me not to find out all I could about the woman who abducted my best friend, now did you?" 

"Hawke," Cassandra hissed, her cheeks inflamed because how did she not recognize her? The cockiness in Hawke's stride, the Amell colors in her dress.  _ That voice _ . 

But the Champion wasn't invited to the palace, was she? She certainly hadn’t arrived with the Inquisition. 

Hawke quickly refixed her mask. "The one and only." She smirked. "Though ... try to keep your voice down. I'm not exactly here on invitation." 

Cassandra let out another groan. That explained one of her questions. The  _ why _ of Hawke’s actions still eluded her though; if Cassandra had to guess, Hawke just enjoyed crashing parties and causing mischief. 

"Does anyone else know you're here?" Cassandra moved away from the stairwell and into a more private corner to avoid anyone overhearing. With how The Game was played, Hawke's appearance could insult any number of nobles and end in her death. Though, taking into account Hawke’s skills in battle, it would more likely end the noble’s death.

"Varric, of course. Technically, I'm his plus one." Hawke laid a gloved hand on the crook of Cassandra's arm. "Do you really intend to stand here all night? You should really try the cucumber sandwiches. I don't know what they put in them, but —"

“Cucumbers,” came Cassandra’s reply, rather flat as she cut Hawke off. Did Hawke know what mission she stumbled into, what she interrupted with her presence? She took it upon herself to fill in the party-crasher as to what important work she threatened to unravel. 

"We are here because ..." Cassandra's eyes darted around the room, making sure no one took interest in their conversation. The others chatted with one another, with only Leliana curiously looking in their direction. Leliana's lips pinched together as she stared at the back of Hawke's head, perhaps figuring out for herself who the mystery woman was. "Empress Celene's life is in danger." 

"It can't hurt to have another pair of hands to help when the fighting breaks out, can it?" Hawke grinned, teeth flashing between her red lips. "But standing here does you no favors. You seem, I don't know, bored? Unfazed?" The hand on Cassandra's arm tugged her forward, toward the ball room. "You can gather intel and still enjoy yourself." From the grand ballroom, Hawke led her into a restricted area, the Hall of Heroes. Once the door shut behind them, Hawke slipped her mask completely off. "Andraste's flaming tits, these events can be so stuffy."

"Then why did you come?" Cassandra tried not to let her unease show at standing in a private area. What information she might gather with no one around, she didn't know. 

Hawke smirked, finally letting go of Cassandra's arm. "Maybe I came for a dance. You do dance, don't you? Or is that boring to you, too?"

A hot flush spanned Cassandra's cheeks as she tore her eyes away from Hawke. The Champion flirted often, but Cassandra didn't think anything more of it, considering how often she teased anyone within earshot. Maybe Cassandra's admiration of Hawke extended a bit beyond hero worship, and surely Hawke picked that up and used it to jest? No sound left her mouth while she struggled to find an appropriate response.  

Hawke’s laugh cut through the thick of Cassandra's thoughts. "You'd think no one asked you to dance before."

"Champion, I ..." 

Slipping her mask back on, Hawke took a few steps away, her back knocking into the door of what appeared to be a private study. "Well, shall we?" The door swung open into a well-lit room. Cassandra caught sight of a stuffed brown bear inside—the trophy room that Hawke promised her. 

Curse her own tongue for not working. But what could she hope to say that might satisfy her curiosity without appearing too naive to Hawke's game? In interrogations, Varric admitted that Hawke enjoyed the chase but never went further, and Cassandra was determined to not let that become her, to not fall under Hawke's spell, lest the other woman grow bored herself.

When Cassandra followed Hawke inside, not offering more than a cursory glance at the taxidermied game, Hawke spoke up again. "Varric said you liked big, romantic gestures. How he knows that, I'm not sure, but it wouldn't be the first time the dwarf gave me bad advice." Hawke's fingers twirled in her hair while she stared at Cassandra. "Is it? Bad advice, that is? If I'm doing too much or not enough ..." 

Somehow, Cassandra managed to find her voice again. "The reason you're here ... truly, is for me?" 

"Well, that and to give your spymaster a heart attack when she realizes who I am, if she hasn't figured it out already." 

The mask, while covering Hawke's face, made her seem more vulnerable than without it. Cassandra, with shaking hands — _ what was she doing?— _ reached across the distance to slip it off Hawke's head, removing it completely to hold in her hands. She stared down at it, as if an actual piece of armor she stripped away from Hawke, an invisible barrier the Champion kept around herself, so much like Cassandra's own. 

When her eyes raised, connecting with Hawke's shining blue orbs that returned the stare with trepidation, Cassandra realized why Varric said the Champion preferred the chase, why she flirted but never went further. It baffled her, how a woman who risked all of Orlais' wrath could be so easily frightened by something as simple as intimacy with another person. 

With that realization came another: if anything were to happen between them, Cassandra needed to take that first step. 

The mask dropped to the ground at their feet.

Fighting back her nerves, Cassandra stepped in front of Hawke and cupped her cheek. She ran her thumb over the satin feel of Hawke’s skin while they continued to stare at each other, mesmerized. Swallowing the lump forming in her throat, Cassandra leaned in and softly brushed her lips against the painted mouth of Marian Hawke. 

In all her reading, Cassandra had never imagined herself anything more than the heroine, the prince always taking the face of some crush of hers at the time. But she wore a prince's uniform, did she not? Or perhaps they were both the heroines and the princesses, traits from both archetypes intertwined into their personalities. People were never as clear cut as the characters in the storybooks. 

**Author's Note:**

> And then the Inquisitor, who is scouring the premises for things, stumbles in on them, both half-undressed with Hawke's lipstick smeared over Cassandra's lips. That's the best information the Inquisitor finds. Dorian has himself a field day with it.


End file.
